


Ashes to Ashes

by Arukou



Series: Tumblr Archive [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, Genocide, Hurt, M/M, Nightmares, Round 13, Temporary Character Death, Tumblr: 890fifth, Vomiting, Weapons of Mass Destruction, not much comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York is eerily silent, covered in soft white powder like the first snow of the season. But Steve knows, he realizes it's not snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Every once in a while I get a twisted idea that just won't let go. Sorry about that. Originally posted [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/120238315451/authors-note-well-this-was-a-happy-one).

He’s on the Brooklyn Bridge, and the sky is gray above him, heavy and pregnant with rain. Chill wind blows in off the ocean and ruffles his hair, sends a sharp slap of cold across his cheeks. There’s not another soul in sight and he shrugs deeper into his jacket, discomfited.

In front of him is an overturned taxi, it’s shape rounded and hulking, like a turtle trapped on its back. It’s the taxi he remembers from his youth, the luxury he could never afford to ride in. There’s no driver. No passenger. Nothing. His gaze follows the line of its hood to the next vehicle, this time a sleek Maserati. He knows that car. He’s seen Tony in that car. It’s as empty as the taxi, coated with a fine layer of gray dust.

Steve starts walking, his steps dampened by the detritus at his feet. There are no other footprints. No signs of life. No evidence of humanity at all, save the island of Manhattan sprawling before him, it’s forest of buildings scratching at the low sky.

He’s used to the noise of the city; it was his lullaby growing up. The cacophony of voices and motors, bangs and crashes, gunshots and police sirens. All of it was always a low-grade hum to him, the sound of home. Now he hears only the wind, sharp and hollow through the streets.

Abandoned cars litter the roadways, all covered with that same fine film of gray. The colors have been washed from the world, as though he’s returned to the colorless vision he once knew before the Serum, missing out on all those vibrant reds and brilliant yellows. He breathes deeply once, the sound of air in his bronchial tubes loud in the silence, and then coughs as some of the fine dust blows down his throat. He knows that taste.

It’s _the_ taste. Too many times on the battlefield, he felt a touch of it on his tongue as one of the men in front of him was atomized by Schimdt’s weapons. The fine particulate of their bodies flying through the air tasted like this.

Steve’s stomach wrenches sideways, twisting, and he gags, bending over his knees as dread builds in his chest. The others. He has to get to the tower.

Through the streets of Manhattan he runs, watching as stoplights filter through their colors, all muted by the dust, by… He coughs again, his gorge rising as he squeezes his eyes shut and runs faster. He almost misses the bracer in the street, the sharp contrast of fine black spikes and electric blue lighting lost against the asphalt. The lights flicker as he grinds to a halt, hands slapping against the side of a car and leaving a dent. It’s Natasha’s Widow’s Bite, lying there on the ground, collapsed in on itself. He casts his eyes around and finds the other, almost underneath the car. “ _Nearly indestructible_ ” Tony had said. 

Steve bends to pick them up, but he can’t bring himself to touch them. They’re covered in fine gray powder as well, and even as he watches, the blue lights flicker and then die. What’s happened? Panic flutters in his chest, growing and growing as he turns back down Broadway, legs churning.

From the corner of his eye, Sam’s wing pack laid out across the hood of a car, one of the wings bent and crushed inward as though he’d landed on it. On the other side of the street, Mjolnir in an impact crater, its owner nowhere to be found. Clint’s bow, the string snapped and one of the arms bent at the wrong angle. Above him Avengers Tower looms closer, it’s top lost in the low-lying cloud cover, the haze of fog and dust. He vaults over Bruce’s glasses, twisted and broken in the middle of the street.

Another sudden gust of wind sends powder over his tongue and down his throat and he wretches, vomits whatever is in his stomach onto the pavement before Stark Tower because what’s in his mouth, that taste, it’s not dust. It’s not dust. 

Panting with panic, he makes his way into the tower, lifting the shield he didn’t even realize he was carrying. Bucky’s arm is crumpled in the atrium, its fingers twisted around a knife. The elevator doesn’t respond to the call button, so Steve turns and dashes up the emergency stairs, vaulting four at a time in his haste. Fifteen floors up, he finds the War Machine armor. It’s open and empty, save the ever present ash. Another thirty-two floors and he finds a red coat, badly scorched, mostly black. Around it, black char marks paint the walls. Steve jumps an entire flight of stairs, blood pumping in his ears. Seventy-some-odd floors up, he nearly trips when he sees Dum Dum’s bowler hat, ripped at the brim and filthy, shortly followed by Morita’s med kit. Falsworth’s favorite pistol is the level after that, and Dernier’s whittling knife is embedded in the wall. Gabe’s emergency radio sits three levels down from the top, light blinking woefully in the dim stairwell. No one came. 

At the top of the tower on the penthouse level landing, he finds a mechanical skeleton, and has to stop and vomit again. The flesh components are gone, but the Mind Stone glows weakly near the skull. Somehow it’s worse, seeing this than seeing all the other remnants. Somehow it feels more real.

Steve ran all this way, but in front of the penthouse exit, he suddenly feels frozen, like the Arctic ice is creeping over his limbs again. Before he can push the bar along the door, it swings open of its own accord, and he’s moving forward whether he likes it or not. Pulled inexorably.

The living space is dark, silent. FRIDAY doesn’t greet him, and there’s no blare of the TV or noise from the kitchen. A line of emergency lights glows weakly along the main stretch of the hallway, guiding him forward. His gut twists and he reaches out to touch the wall, trying to sink his fingers in and stop himself.

In the lab space, the Iron Man armor stands empty, the arc reactor at its heart quiescent. A haze of gray is scattered over the lone lit display and Steve cannot breathe. At the top of the screen 00:00 blinks in large, sickly red. Below, in smaller type, the feed reads “Valkyrie WMD ETA. Emergency procedures advised.”

His teeth are clenched so hard in his jaw he’s amazed they’re not cracking. He reaches forward as though to touch the display, but no. That’s…he can’t. That’s Tony. Scattered over the computer. That’s Tony.

Suddenly the speakers crackle to life. “Steve?”

He chokes and falls to his knees, and the ice is there again, in his bones and his lungs and his blood, holding him captive. “Steve? We’ve lost the Valkyrie. It’s not on radar. Do you read me, Steve? The bombs. Did you disable them? Sergeant, begin evacuation procedures. London. Radio London now. Steve? Steve, can you hear me? Steve, please, I…”

The static of the radio cuts out abruptly and the display blinks off, plunging him into darkness. It’s only when the light is gone that he finds it in him to loosen his tongue and scream.

* * *

“Steve? Steve come back to me. Steve. Come on. Jesus, FRIDAY, can you…”

Steve thrashes out of bed, tearing a swath of sheets as he goes. He lands on hands and knees and vomits onto the carpet, shaking and coughing, sweat cold on his skin. He can feel someone looming over him and without thinking he lashes out, arm wrapping around a calf and pulling.

“Fuck!”

The body falls to the ground, hands up and placating, and Steve blinks, still coughing, eyes watering, as he comes back to himself. “Tony?” He whispers, strings of mucus trailing from his mouth and nose. Hastily, he wipes himself with the back of his arm, trying to slow the beating of his heart.

Curled up on his tailbone, hands still held out and open, Tony nods. “You with me?”

Steve looks down at the mess he made, shudders, and then shoves back scooting across the floor until his back is to the wall. “I…” The taste is still on his tongue. A hellscape of ash and silence.

Tony carefully curls onto his knees, sitting back on his heels, face creased in worry. “Sounds like it was a bad one.”

Hanging his head, Steve wraps his arms around himself, trying to ease off the shaking. His muscles have seized, cramping tightly and painfully. He can see the tendons standing on his feet and hands, long lines of tension. He can’t seem to find the words to respond.

Tony looks him up and down and then carefully stands, disappearing from Steve’s line of sight. Panic rises in his throat again because he can’t see him. He can’t see him.

Steve rises, nearly running as he follows Tony into the bathroom. He’s got the shorter man in his arms before he knows what he’s doing, squeezing and burying his face in Tony’s neck, inhaling and trying to banish the scent of death from his memory.

Tony gives a squeak of surprise, but he doesn’t speak. Instead he wraps his own arms around Steve’s ribs and returns the embrace, fingers digging into Steve’s bare skin.

“You with me?” he asks again, but Steve can’t even find it in himself to nod. He clings for dear life, teeth grinding and heart fluttering like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings.

They stand there for what seems an age until finally Steve’s pulse slows and his muscles relax. Tony carefully eases out of his grip long enough to pour a capful of mouthwash. “Here,” he offers, holding the stinging mint under Steve’s nose. “It’ll help.”

The wash of alcohol and mint over his tongue is like a cool breeze on a summer’s day, coating his mouth as he swishes it between his teeth. He spits into the sink and turns to Tony, hand held out expectantly. Tony gives him another capful without question, and he repeats until he can’t taste ash or vomit anymore.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tony offers with a small, wry grin and more than a hint of worry in his eyes. He already knows the answer. Steve shakes his head sharply and shucks his boxers, stepping into the shower without a word. 

“Temperature, Captain?” FRIDAY asks softly.

“Cold,” he returns, voice a husk of its normal timber, like he’s just stumbled his way through a desert. “High pressure.”

The spray hits him with a shock of freshness, nearly punishing against his shoulders. He stands under it for five minutes, barely registering when Tony says, “Start warming it up FRIDAY. Slowly.” By the time he steps out, it’s almost lukewarm. Tony hands him a massive towel that smells of fabric softener and ozone, and it’s the best smell in the world next to Tony’s skin. Steve dries himself off with a rough touch and then leaves the bathroom and his boxers behind, Tony trailing in his wake.

“Let’s move to your room,” he offers. “FRIDAY will have someone come and clean this up.”

Part of Steve viscerally resists forcing someone else to clean up his own mess, but if he does it, then all he’ll be thinking about is… He nods sharply and steps out of the master suite, turning toward the elevator. Tony jogs after him, and holds up a towel. “You’re still naked, Steve,” he says softly, and Steve swallows, nodding and cinching the towel around his waist.

The ride down to his own floor is silent, but Tony leans into him, arm pressing against his, head tilted toward his shoulder. He shudders once under the intensity of everything he feels for this man, and doesn’t resist when the inventor intertwines their fingers.

They walk to Steve’s bedroom in silence, and he drops the towel on the floor before crawling in, sitting propped against the headboard. Tony follows suit, pressing his hip and arm up against Steve’s. After a moment, the Steve turns into him, face pressed to neck, arm hooked over hip.

They don’t sleep, either of them, the rest of the night. They just sit in the heavy silence of the tower.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fanfiction and nerdery (I'm usually a much lighter person, I swear) you can find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/).


End file.
